The last week of June saw me unable to face Portsmouth Water — this tightness rose, this sickness slapped, and for a whole week all I could manage was sleep — and since there’s purpose in ‘life continues’ this wee week was a relapse, a little hiccup en route from the Co-op.
Defensive, accepting, accommodating, uncertain, insecure, self-loathing, rejected, unworthy, deceitful, responsible, pathetic, weak — the repercussions of being treated so badly by hideous people, my embarrassment and bruised pride. After the Co-op I hadn’t picked the dog’s shit up, basically, instead I’d allowed it to dry and whiten like their innocence, and then I’d stepped in it barefoot — encrustations between my toes — and the infection got in under a nail and laid me up in bed.
I’m certain (I know) that had this relapse happened while I was still working at the Co-op it would’ve provoked snide utterances from the despicable few, because why would they break a habit? But I don’t work for the Co-op anymore, I now work for Portsmouth Water and they’re much nicer people; the polar opposite.
The build to a relapse (edited)
I think my post In lieu of care sums up the cause that broke me as well as any attempt, but I do fuzz the final snap, I don’t say what tipped me over the edge. Whilst being bullied I raised my grievance against my manager because she’d decided to discipline me for my colleague not pulling her fair share of the weight. During the investigation my manager had gathered evidence that supported my defence but, for motives that could only be her own, she chose to ignore it. She took such time to say and stress and repeat that her focus had shifted, but when it turned out that it hadn’t I just couldn’t take anymore of her bullshit. I can’t help but wonder, are my mistakes still happening? If so, probably not me then…
I left and had to find a new job. Well I didn’t get the council one because I was way too over-confident, cocky almost, very not me; and I didn’t accept the Clarence Pier one because I took a look at the big wheel, knew I’d have to climb it, and no.
And then along came Portsmouth Water.
From P45 to new job, 4 weeks — my first 4 employed weeks were a mix of things, of how benign water is when compared with death, to the feeling I didn’t fit in; I was tainted and they were kind, and I was deceiving them. I told no-one about the grievance and I hazed the breakdown details.
As the days neared relapse I held no confidence in anything I knew, and I was due to begin on the phones, and I think I just panicked — I don’t know what happened — I just went home and got into bed, and it took me some days to get back out again.
The other side
Coming clean to Portsmouth Water was the best thing I did — I didn’t feel like I had a choice in the matter, without confession I couldn’t hope to explain the week off, and without explanation it would prove a very awkward return to work meeting.
I told Tracy everything — not the whole lot of everything, not all of it always comes out — and she listened; she didn’t yawn, didn’t get distracted by her e-mails, didn’t pretend to care at all. I apologised because I felt guilty, dishonest, a muddle of much, and she accepted my apology, questioned why I felt such, and said something that I’d forgot: “You stuck up for yourself” and I should be proud of that.
I told the Co-op where they could shove their bullshit, and I told them good. Hey, I got blocked on Facebook so I must’ve done something right.
The next step
It’s simple, tackle what comes when it comes. To help, I need to stop censoring this whole debacle — my anger, it’s what I feel so I should express it. I should recognise what I did for what it was, my very best. It’s not my fault that I was bereaved then bullied by heartless people. I need to embrace George — he, the mix of everything I don’t like, all the emotions and baggage I loathe. I created him so I should be his friend.
Mostly, I just need to keep doing what I’m doing where I’m doing it — it’s nice being surrounded by nice people.
It’s nice making friends.
George’s message to the bullies:
Georgie-porgie spits in your face — phlegm he hocks up and he takes time to brace. He asks, “Do you like the taste?” What an arsehole.
Pay attention or drop dead, either way I’m speaking to your face. You’re like constipation — a desperation in need of release — but with help of a spoon… Satisfaction, the wrist-flick to plop you in the toilet.
I want you to hold the back of your head, put your face into a bowl of freshly poured cold water, and stay there until the final bubble pops — I want you to fight against your own struggles, of course, and mourn your thoughts as you splutter from this world.
I want you to grow old sitting by your window, watching and waiting for visitors who never call — your loved ones living without you — and I want you to be a long time found, sealed straight down — you deserve to rot.
Most of all, I want you to lose something like my loss and get what you gave, and I want you to find no light between the suns rays. I’ll leave ‘and learn your lessons and then learn to love yourself’ up to you — you’ve a lot ahead to face.
And if I can have none of that, I want nothing more from you.